


the Kingslayer

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Not Canon Compliant, Riverlands (ASoIaF), Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:53:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: in which Brienne is captured for the murder of Renly and sent off on a jaunt through the Riverlands as captive of one Jaime Lannister(works best if you don’t think about the logistics too hard.)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	the Kingslayer

When the Maid of Tarth was imprisoned for her role in the uprising against King Stannis, most people didn’t care. _Serves her right for serving a traitor_ , a few said, and _Women shouldn’t fight,_ said more.

 _Renly was no proper king at all_ was the opinion of most of them. They were glad enough to be loyal to Stannis, — or Robb — wor Joffrey — or whomever would give them peace to plow their fields and fuck their wives, raise children and grow old and die at last in their beds. What they knew of Renly Baratheon was that he had a smooth face and a love of clothes, and for that alone they were prepared to condemn him.

But Brienne wept.

She had sworn to protect Renly, she had sworn to serve him and see him sat on the Iron Throne, and what had she done instead? Only watched as he died in front of her — and been jailed for the crime.

And now the realm was vying for the pleasure of removing her head.

She was too stubborn and too young to fear death. What she feared that night — sitting in the dirt, with a rope around her neck and her hands behind her — was the aftermath. What would they say of her? Who would be there to tell her story, and give her sympathy? Stories and songs there would be, she knew, and she could neither know them nor defend herself from them.

It was one injustice too many. To die for killing the king she loved was bad enough; to be executed for a lie was worse; being thought cruel was unbearable. Brienne shuddered under the weight.

And she was young, and alone, and she was to die the next day — or perhaps a week from now — or a month — who knew when the lords and kings would agree?

So she cried.

She kept quiet about it, although the guards around her cage might as well have been carved from stone. They heard nothing, saw nothing, thought nothing, felt nothing. Their impassion was security in a way, and she gave herself over to grief.

Too late she heard the voices nearby, in the dark; too late she heard “Bring a torch” and “Jaime, come”. She couldn’t wipe her face anyway, she could only lift up her chin and hope the tears hadn’t left any obvious trails and say “Lady Catelyn! How lovely to see you looking so well.”

*  
  


She could not really believe it. Even as Jaime Lannister held a dagger to her throat, and Catelyn managed the ropes, and paid off the stoneface guards, and they crept through the camp and into the forest — she didn’t believe it.

And all the while _ser_ Jaime was smiling, amused, cheerful.

She hated him.

*  
  


They went on as quickly as they could — two people bound together — and all the while he needled her. _Wench_ he called her, and _Kingslayer,_ smiling more when the name made her scowl deepen.

”A man could strike a spark off your face,” he told her that evening. 

”I’m aware of how I look.” Brienne spoke crisply. She was aware of how he looked, too — and disliked him the more for it. Even grimy with travel, wearing a tunic borrowed simply because it was poorer and more stained than his own, knowing it did not do to appear too prosperous in the backcountry, he was luminous. Dirt dulled his hair and soot streaked his face, but there was nothing to be done about the curve to his lip and the green laughing flash of his eyes.

But they were not laughing now; they studied her. “I meant, you look flinty. Hard.”

“I know very well what you meant.”

He was striking sparks now in earnest, blowing on them to make the smoke flare up; then it was the work of a moment for him to lay a quick, hot fire. He was practiced at this.

He’s a knight, she reminded herself. A soldier. But that was all at odds with his face and his smile and his constant chattering nonsense, and she did not know which to believe.

The fire burned.

”I need to make water,” she said.

”Alright.” And he got up, to let out the rope a bit and yet keep a blade to her neck.

She stared at him. ”You think I’ll run?”

”Maybe so, Kingslayer. Not what I would choose to do, for certain. It’s dark as hell for one. And you have neither food nor weapons nor money — nor friends, I imagine. But,” and he shrugged. “Who knows what passes through the mind of an ugly wench, a woman without honor ...”

She hated him. “I told you that I need to piss because I need to piss.”

“So do it,” he said. “You’ve nothing I haven’t seen before, and better.”

She fumbled down her trousers and squatted, hating him and herself and everything: but when she turned around again, expecting to see a smirk at least, he still was not laughing. 

**Author's Note:**

> 99% sure there are more chapters to come but, you know, life is strange and uncertain, i cannot make promises about my future without a chance they will be broken


End file.
